"Дон Пендлтон. The Libya Connection ("Палач" #48) " - читать интересную книгу автора

There had been noise tonight, from the Browning. But security at this level,
deep beneath a secret meeting place, was spacious - sparse and unassuming
like a secret itself.
At the opposite end, stairs led up to the main room of the structure
where Bolan would find his primary targets. His concern, too, was to get
Fahima and Bushir out of the killing zone.
Bolan inched the door inward a few inches. He scanned the narrow,
rutted dirt street outside the doorway.
The scene was deserted, cloaked in darkness. The village of Bishabia
dozed beneath the desert night.
Bolan could sense the tension of the father and daughter who stood
close behind him.
He also sensed an electricity out there in the night. There was a
crackle to the air. Bolan knew in his gut that others were roaming. On the
kill. He did not know how many or who. But they were there.
He holstered the Browning and spun the Galil into readiness. He toed
the door further open and stepped into the night like a shadow. A shadow in
combat crouch.
He surveyed the scene: he saw nothing but the night.
"Move along the wall away from me," commanded Bolan over his shoulder
to Fahima and her father. "When we get to the end of the building, you're on
your own. Good luck."
They exited the building and did as they were told. Bolan covered them
from the rear.
They almost made it.
The crunch of several pairs of footsteps came from around the corner of
the building when Bolan's group was less than two yards from it.
Four of Jericho's free-lance terrorist troopers, black and burly and
uniformed like the men Bolan had killed inside, came into sight at a
leisurely clip.
Everyone saw everybody else at the same instant.
Bushir and his daughter knew they would only be in Bolan's way. Father
and daughter went low, wisely falling away from the hellground that would be
the airspace above. Bushir moved with an agility surprising for a man his
age.
Bolan was diving into a prone firing position. The rifle was right for
night killing like this.
He pumped off two rounds, was rewarded with the sight of one soldier
flopping back, open armed, as if kicked by a mule.
The Galil's report echoed like a thundercrack in the tight confines of
the village street.
The soldiers were scattering. They appeared untrained. But they were
pulling their weapons around fast enough.
Bolan sighted in on one guy dodging to the side. The Galil pumped two
more lead destroyers that flipped the man into a forward somersault, minus
his face.
The two survivors had held flank positions in their original formation.
Both men opened fire with their rifles. But they could not see Bolan. They
were firing at where they thought he was.
Saffron flashes of gunfire knifed the darkness.